The Cryptic Affair
by beesandbrews
Summary: Mycroft brings Sherlock a case that he feels the police have got wrong. Sherlock extracts a heavy price in return. Contains references to murder, suicide and Mycroft Holmes' private life.


_Mensonges d' argent_

Sherlock examined the photocopy of a single sheet of plain notepaper closely. There was a second exhibit, a Post-It note, secured to the bottom left hand corner with a paper-clip. On it, the phrase 'money lies' was transcribed in a meticulously neat hand. The penmanship suggested the translator was male, public school educated, and right handed, although he seemed to be suffering from an injury to his wrist. The blood spattered original and its translation, was, no doubt, on its way to the Metropolitan Police's file storage unit, along with the rest of the folder's exhibits - scene of incident photographs, coroner's findings, and a summation – because the conclusion of all concerned was that the person who had written the note had committed suicide. He looked up from the page, and at his brother Mycroft, secretly intrigued, but feigning an expression of disinterest.

"It's an unusual final declaration, I'll admit," he said, as if there were a dozen other things he should be doing other than having his brother round to tea. "I'm sure it was a welcome change from the usual maudlin expressions of regret one usually finds at the scene of a suicide – "

"It wasn't a suicide," Mycroft said sharply, and then he rapidly composed himself. "The police, and the coroner, are in error. Andrew Townsend did not kill himself."

Although his declaration was delivered with his usual sang-froid, the skin around Mycroft's eyes tightened as his gaze drilled into Sherlock's face, further betraying any notion that his interest in the case was purely a professional one.

Sherlock's interest in the potential case grew more keen. Calmly, he set the file aside and picked up his teacup. He stirred another teaspoonful of sugar into a cup of excellent Darjeeling, took a sip, and then asked, "And you know this, how?"

Once again Mycroft betrayed himself, not through his words, but through his body language. He leant forward in his chair. "Because I knew Andrew. He was in my employ. And because he was a friend."

And now, Sherlock thought, they had arrived at the proverbial heart of the matter. "A significant friend?" he asked, lacing the question with a heavy dose of innuendo.

Mycroft's mute glare was all the answer Sherlock received, but it was enough. Andrew Townsend had been a_ very_ significant friend. The sort his brother would only have been seen with in public places, in the company of others, meeting for clandestine trysts only when the coast had been checked and double checked to make sure that it was clear.

"I see," Sherlock said, his tone completely neutral. What his brother got up to in his private life was a topic they did not discuss, even though Mycroft rarely, if ever, extended Sherlock the same courtesy. "Did you bring your suspicions to the police?"

Mycroft continued to glare, this time, Sherlock supposed, at the absurdity of the question, rather than at its cheek. "St John Berringsford is a fool who's only risen to his present rank at the Met through political connections and the incredible good luck to have a talented sergeant. No," Mycroft said quietly. "I did not go to the police." He exhaled sharply and then looked up to once again meet Sherlock's gaze. "I want you to find out who did this, Sherlock. I want you to find Andrew's killer." He sighed again. "If it will persuade you to investigate, I will pay your usual fee."

Sherlock suppressed an uncharitable, and undignified, smirk. Mycroft was desperate. Taking his money would have been useful, petitioners to the consulting room had been few of late, but there was something he wanted more. "I'll waive my fee." He held up a hand to forestall Mycroft's thanks. "_If_ you'll treat our parents to an evening at the theatre."

Mycroft shook his head from side to side and he visibly paled. "Not Andrew Lloyd Webber. Anything but that, Sherlock, I beg of you."

Sherlock shrugged and sipped his tea. "I understand _The Mikado_ is making its triumphant return to Covent Garden."

The previous glares Mycroft had bestowed upon Sherlock were pallid compared to the one he was subjected to at that suggestion. Calmly, Sherlock continued to drink his tea and finally, Mycroft dropped his gaze. "You drive a hard bargain, brother mine." He reached for his mobile and rapidly typed out and sent a text. "Done." He put the device away. "Now. To the matter at hand?"

Sherlock set aside his teacup. "Very well. Just out of curiosity, what did the police make of the alleged suicide note?"

Mycroft frowned, although at what it wasn't clear. Then he composed his features into their usual placid lines. "Through dint of hard work, and careful investing, Andrew had become a man of some means. But he didn't start out that way. He was a scholarship student whose father was a barrow boy. When Berringsford learnt that, he decided that Andrew had grown to believe that wealth, and rising above his station, had brought him misery rather than happiness. He saw a solitary man, with no family of his own, who belonged to the right clubs, but because of his humble beginnings, would never make it into their inner circles. His ambition to social climb thwarted, he took the only logical means out."

"You're right," Sherlock agreed. "Berringsford is a fool. He saw himself in Townsend's place and imagined how he'd feel, should their positions be reversed. I suppose the fact that Townsend met his end at the Shepherd's Bush Market tube station only reinforced his erroneous conclusion?"

"You surmised correctly." Mycroft's mobile vibrated in his pocket. He reached for it and then glanced at the screen.

"He was in your employ?" Sherlock said, recognising the shifting of posture that meant his brother was pressed for time. "Currently engaged on a project?"

"Classified." This time Mycroft's body language revealed nothing significant.

"Fine." Sherlock flipped through the pages of the report. "Money lies," he said contemplatively. "Cherchez la argent." He looked up sharply at Mycroft. "Was he? Following a money trail?"

Mycroft's expression tightened, as if he was internally deliberating. He nodded once. "That was one of his lines of enquiry, yes."

"Then it's one you can safely discount." Sherlock felt himself disconnect from the room as he put himself in the place of a man he'd never met and whose life, though the necessity of his work, would have always been a cypher. "The note was scrawled hastily. Coded."

"Obviously," Mycroft said, as if nothing could be more plain, and therefore was beneath comment.

Sherlock snapped abruptly from his reverie as a he leapt at a possible scenario. "Was there a … French connection?"

Mycroft's eyes widened and his lips compressed as he struggled not to show emotion.

Sherlock felt the thrill of closing in on the solution to the cryptic affair. "Then I would suggest, brother mine, that is the direction in which to set your hounds."

Mycroft closed his eyes, examining Sherlock's logic, fitting it together with pieces to the puzzle only he had access to. He exhaled softly. "Thank you, Sherlock." He glanced down at the mobile still held loosely between his fingers and typed out another rapid text. Then he rose. He made it as far as the stairwell and then he called over his shoulder. "You can expect an effusive phone call from Mother about the opera." He waited a beat and then he dropped his bombshell. "I've booked a box. You can bring the Watsons if you like."

Sherlock's jaw fell open in shock. He hastily set aside his teacup, from which he'd once again began to sip contentedly after his brother had taken his leave. He leapt to his feet and ran to the doorway. "That wasn't the deal!"

Mycroft shrugged. "I agreed I'd treat our parents. I didn't agree to doing it alone. You know how much they enjoy the pleasure of your company." He descended a few more steps and then added, "I'll send the car," as Sherlock silently fumed at being hoisted by his own petard.

end


End file.
